Kyire - DISCONTINUED FOR NOW
by GrievousGirl19
Summary: This story is about the normal stuff. Ya' know with outlawed vigilantes, girls getting run over by Semi trucks, and the end of Civilization as we know it. Ya' know . . . The norm? Well maybe not. This is a Rorschach/OC story. !THIS IS DISCONTINUED FOR NOW!
1. Prologue – A life on a Page

Prologue – A life on a Page

My time spent in the presence of heroes . . . was a collaboration of memories that I never wanted nor would ever forget.

But before Pain there was Bliss.

I was born in the year 1960. Moments that consumed my infant life were the smells of cotton perfume, sounds of nearby cows, and the gentle breeze of a farm house. My birth supposedly happened in a farm outside of New Jersey, but my family had to move for lack of upkeep .Those happy senses vanished only to be silenced quickly by the sight of busy New York streets and the stench of a broken down city apartment.

Mother worked two jobs, as a seamstress and waitress, while Father toiled away at a pea packaging plant. I stayed at a preschool for a while until, money got severely tight. Dad had broken a leg and was laid off, and no health-care was in his contract. This left my mom working overtime and the addition of another sideline job.

After a month of continuous work and stress, mother . . . broke. It was unavoidable that she would leave. A was two. The only features about mother that I was able to program in my head were Blonde hair, Blue eyes. No face. No name. There was no big bang of an argument or final slam of a metal door; instead she left in the middle of the night.

The next morning father burned all of her clothes and possessions in a dumpster outback. I remember father's voice echoing in my head that "It will be fine. She'll come back."

The lies that we tell ourselves to feel loved.

This, the primal instinct to change, motivated father to find a job; to improve himself for when mother would come back. He would spend all of breakfast scanning the paper. Reading. Circling. He would walk me to the nanny looking at all the store fronts for Help Wanted Signs. Sometimes we made a game out of it. "Find the sign for Daddy".

What a Joke. She never came back.

Eventually Father got a job as a mail man. It kept him busy and some money flowing, but it wasn't enough. By the time I was Six we had moved from three apartments, two one-roomed shelter houses, one street gutter (Just for a night), and then finally the basement of a Laundry mat. Each smelled worse than the next.

Though the years of loss and sadness, Dad had thrown himself into a sinking depression that got deeper and deeper. By then the drugs had become a common house guest and alcohol a close friend. One day while my father slept propped up in his lounge chair I attempted to remove an empty beer bottle from his meaty hands. As I grasped the rim and began to pull, my face was bashed with a clash of glass and the stinking sensation of pain. I screamed and fell backwards to the cold concrete.

Blood and tears Ripped down my eye and check. I screamed louder. My father stood above me . . . broken bottle in hand. His eyes dripped of drunken lame and numbness. I trembled, shrieking with cries for help and salvation. None Came. The sounds of a ripping dress. The heat of my face smearing blood on the wall. And the agony of skin pieces torn away, hitting the ground were the only things I Remember before I Blacked out.

I woke up in a hospital. Light and warmth welcomed my first senses. As my eyes adjusted I saw nurses of every color surrounding me. Monitoring screens and jotting notes. I talked and they all stared at me. Smiling faces and beautiful eyes. At the end of my bed floated an angel, but he morphed into a simple doctor in white. But buy God was I glad to be in Good care.

I later was told that my face would be scared for the rest of my life. I was never given a mirror. My story and masked face was broadcast on every channel in the New York area. Reporters and photographers came often and once a lady from one of the bigger News Team came and interviewed me. It was like I was a Star, a Movie Diva.

Ignorance is bliss.

Father was tired for drug usage and Child abuse. One time during Dad's trial his lawyer, A Mr. Cole Grubmen, came to "visit" me. He sat down beside me on the outdoor bench. Mr. Grubmen seemed nice. Tall, dark haired and fit . . . It reminded me of Dad in his earlier years.

We talked about his own daughter he had, she was a bit older than me, but we had the same platinum hair and green eyes. He told me that if he was away from his precious for long that he would miss her. I could see where this was going. The Fancy suite he was wearing left with mashed potatoes and apple juice all over. My lunch was my only weapon at the time.

A month later I was released from the hospital into a foster home, and Father was put away in prison. Surprisingly I missed him and wished I had a do over to spend the thrown away time with him. I cried myself to sleep every night.

Eventually I was allowed to be entered into an adoption program, and once again my story was all over the news. But my face was not the only one in the spot light. "Masked Heroes" had become a fad again. I watched on in awe.

It was 1967. I was seven when big news of _Knew _vigilantes broke out. Flaunt fights! Heroic Rescues! Awesome feats of courage and strength! I had to meet them. I collected newspaper clippings and fliers with pictures. It became an obsession of mine.

First was the Comedian. I never liked him and never collected much stuff on him. It was mostly reruns of him fighting over seas. By then I was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Louis. Their names were Mary and Jim, but they said I could call them whatever I wanted. No need in changing something already good. They had a fat Rottweiler that would lie down and eat birds a lot. Meat was his name. They resembled each other.

Ozymandias was pretty cool. I remembered that purple had become my favorite color for weeks. It grew old though.

Next was the Silk Specter. I had my hair modeled off of her when I turned Eight. I had her costume (modified of course) for the next Halloween. The scars that down my right eye and check got me made fun of when I collected my candy. I ran home after one house.

Doctor Manhattan. Blue, quite, and smart. I had many articles on him and what happened to make him . . . kind of a god. I felt that I connected to him deeper than any of them back then. I knew how bad it was to be different. It made me weep for us. Tears would trace themselves into the dug in flesh.

From what I gathered, the second Nite Owl was biased off the original. I remember having a small picture of him in my pocket that I would sometimes pull out and kiss. I was nine when I had my first crush.

1970. I was ten. My Hair was cut short and I liked to play outside. Though once we got news that my Father had been let out of Prison . . . my time outside was reduced. My collection of paper clippings and memorabilia was piled and organized with Rorschach on top. He was my Favorite. I loved him. He was my hero and my world.

I had a dream once that he and I ran though the streets at night. Fighting injustice. Solving crimes. Flying to the moon and back with Doctor Manhattan. He made the night and day sparkle with light and tenderness, but life sometimes isn't always on your side when lady fate comes around.

1975. I was fifteen when my house caught one fire, killing Mary and Jim. Luckily meat and I had gotten out through a window. I never shed one tear when they pulled the smoking carcasses out in body bags. I was put back into one foster home after another. It was like I had lost another Faceless mother and got shuffled around again like when it was just me and Father. I hated it. As The Fosters' faces blended so did my normal behavior with anger. I would hit, yell, scream! No one wanted me, and that was fine with me.

Say all but one.

My Father had gone straight. Sober. Drug-less. Steady job. Nice apartment. He made contact with me. 1977, I was 17 and when the Keene Act hit the Watchmen I moved back with my Father. Life became stable . . . For the most part. My emotions had calmed down. I was in High school. Meat lived with My Father and me.

After the pain there was peace, at least in myself. The World? Not so much.


	2. Chapter 1 – An Accident

Author's Note: Sorry for yankin' yer alls' chagns in this one. Something was wrong with my computer, but i fixed it now. LuLz So now the story shall go on!

Chapter 1 – An Accident

Daniel Dreiberg was enjoying his alone time eating yesterday's leftovers of meatloaf and green beans, and an ice cold beer was his drink. As usual Dan was by himself. He lifted the nozzle of the bottle to his chapped lips as a loud clash echoed in the nearby hallway. It startled him so much that he dropped the alcoholic beverage; it shattered with light brown foam explosion. "Dammit it!" Dan yelled at himself.

Loud footsteps traced there was down the hall way until they neared the Kitchen door. Suddenly they ceased with a hard stomp. Dan was defenseless, besides the fork he now had grasped tightly in his right palm. A few seconds later Rorschach busted into Dan's kitchen by the means of foot to wood. Splinters went flying in the atmosphere. "Jesus Christ Ror-!"

"Dan, We-."Rorschach was cut off.

"For once in a God Dang while would you please kno-?" Now Daniel was cut off, but not by his counterpart, but by what was lumped into Rorschach's arms. It was a body. Small but puffy, probably due to the over sized, black coat. A pair of legs in dark jeans came out of one end while long strands of blond hair at the other. There was no movement.

"No time for sightseeing." Rorschach marched his way over to the table, cleared it of any objects by a swoop of his left leg, and placed the unknown person onto its surface. "Dan, girl in hit and run crash. Head bleeding; seemed to open old wounds. No time to be stupid."

Daniel wasn't dumb and he knew the consequences of this act, but by now Dan's alertness had become on full watch. Automatically he found himself digging in the pots and pans for his mini first aid kit. The process of treatment flashed in his mind. First: Clean and inspect. Two: Administer a dose of Penicillin or other type of pain killer. And finally number three: Fix with either a wrap or bandage. Just as Dan began soaking a towel in hot water and soap Rorschach yelled across the small space. "No time for cleaning Daniel!"

"Well what do you want me to do?" He stood, waiting for the next queue the dry towel in his hands.

"Just stop bleeding! If not, blood loss and then," Rorschach tossed a glance through his unmarked eyes ", bleeds to death." Dan joined his old friend's side to look upon the victim. She was beautiful. Thin, pale, Blonde hair, almost perfect . . . expect-! There, slashed down her face was a mix of newly torn flesh, bleeding proudly, and already deep imbedded scars. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Dan clicked his mind back to the situation, wiping and patting away rivers of the red mess. Eventually he got it clean enough so that he could see where the blood was leaking.

Just as Rorschach had predicted, the old scars had somehow had cut open, raw and red. "Now what?" There seemed no way to avoid the question, and Dan needed an answer. Rorschach grumbled with a reply.

"Bandage now. Needs to last till drop off at hospital." Dan flipped open the lid to the first aid kit and pulled out a decent roll of bandage tape. The two worked together as fast as they could, lifting and adjusting while wrapping the material around her face, before the blood would start to flow again. They worked in silence until her whole face was very mummy like with little nostril holes.

"Alright, now, Rorschach," panted Daniel ", wha-what happened?"

The masked quest remained silent for a while. The he spoke "Stupid. Silly. And not paying attention." Rorschach breathed in heavily. "Walked straight into the street, never saw the semi truck." The pair of them looked at each other than to the girl. "  
Stupid . . ."

"Well," Dan sighed ", at least she's pretty." The joke was to have been taken as a joke, harmful in nature, but was instead interpreted the wrong way. Dan was met by a hard punch to the forearm. "Ow! Hey I was only joking!"

"Not a Clown Daniel," Rorschach then genteelly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and calves, the easiest way to carry a limp body, and walked out the broken kitchen door and back into the dark hallway ", don't act like one."


	3. Chapter 2  Awake from Fake

Chapter 2 – Awake from Fake 

"Not Clown," _Shuffle _", Don't Act."_ Thump, Pound, Step step step step . . ._

_. . . I opened my eyes to see a familiar white ceiling framed by four light blue walls. It didn't take long for my mind to put the puzzle together; I was in my old room when I was a little girl. I raised myself gently up from my little pillow. At first I was light-headed, but I ignored it and instead picked myself upwards and happily skipped around my room. I took in the luscious sight. _

_Toys were littered across the floor and my favorite dolly, Mary, sat across from my bed in a little yellow chair, her forever faithful smile gleamed at me. Then the smell of plastic and sunflowers whipped into my nose, followed by the soft pink glowing from my old, cloud shaped night light. All of these things greeted me just like a dear old friend. I was home!_

_God it had been ages . . . or had it? Had the past years of violence and loss been a bad dream, a bit of spoiled milk before bed? My mind raced as that hopeful though took wind, the bad dream was over, or was it? At first I walked past the mini standing mirror that was leaned against a far wall, but I was brought back to it. _

_The face that looked back at me was no innocent little girl. Her body was mature and her face was scarred. I gasped as I realized it was me, the older beaten me. I could feel a small cry whelp up in my throat, but before it could escape I slapped my hands to my mouth. I was no child anymore and I didn't need to cry like one. This was a dream and I needed to wake up. "Wake up." I yelled at myself. "Wake up!" With that I pinched at my neck . . . _

. . . I could feel my limbs and body jump and shiver from my own wakening. Shortly after I could feel a tingling all over my body. The sensation was that of all my blood moving back to its needed spots; like when your leg falls asleep. I then tried to crack my eyes open, but my goal was blocked for my vision was colored with a yellow film. Whatever the thing was it was hot and itchy; it made my scars burn. As I attempted to reach up to scratch it a force stopped my hand. It was cold, leathery and shaped like a hand "Stop." The command came out more as a grunt than an actual word. "Don't touch."

I tried to talk back but the only noise that erupted from my mouth was gurgled by a hot, rusty tasting liquid; blood, I could tell. It then overflowed from the corners of my mouth and onto the yellow surroundings, it was then I could tell that the film was actually a bandage and the blood was soaking up the blood. It was doing a poor job for I could feel it drip down my neck and down my back. By now most of my senses were fully functioning, for I could feel the two arms around me, the wind on my skin, and the sound of running footsteps. My mind was telling me pain and my face placed the spot. Something had happened and I was being taken somewhere, hopefully a hospital. I spoke again "What-"

"Quite, no talking." Male, and by the sound of his breath he was tired; panting like a dog. "Hospital in sight." My hero's breath was atrocious and his cloths smelled like sewer.

"Who are-?" Once again I was silenced, this time buy the man's hand.

"Shut up!" His glove tasted like a mix of chemicals and sugar; the taste made my mouth hurt. Without warning I was dumped upright, left to stand on my own; which I failed miserably. Immediately my body fell down to a hard, textured, concrete surface with my hands and knees being the only things keeping from face planting. At first I had the urge to yell at him, but then took stock of that it would have been childish. So I kept silent as I slowly got up, mind fuzzy and fingers feeling for something to lean on. "Seven yards ahead," The man's voice came softly compared to the beating of my heart inside my ears ", Hospital door. Should find help inside."

"I don't-," My throat gave out a wet cough ", I don't understand." It was the truth. Did he expect to fumble my hurt self towards a destination with the medical wrappings blocking my view? How cold, but tactful. He apparently didn't want to be seen. Eventually my hand found a brick wall. With a thump I hung my left side against it, using it as a crutch. As the wall seemed to get more and more inviting I could feel myself began to slide down its surface. I was losing the fight to stand, which might have been my death. But then a mighty force pushed me back up, holding itself at my shoulders.

"Don't be lazy, girl." Abruptly I was shoved forward into another unknown. "Walk forward!" The voice was now far behind me, almost like he was moving away; abandoning me. I had to say something before he left.

"Hey!" I called out the best I could, scratchy throat and everything. "Thanks," I waved in the air ", thanks for this."

What he said back made me laugh a little. "Welcome, but don't make this occasional." And with that I could hear him run off into the night, or what felt like night. It could have been day for all I knew.


End file.
